Shirts
by corneroffandom
Summary: The Boys are desperate for any piece of Dalton to hold onto.


Nothing feels right, being here. The only plus is when the Boys had received their bags back, after Silas had snapped at a backstage worker to collect them, they'd gotten their phones as well, which they take great pains to hide from Silas. They receive text alerts whenever Dalton tweets, which makes it easier to keep up with him, although the sadness behind his words eat at them.

After Bruiser and Silas are fast asleep, snoring loud enough to shake the ramshackle 'house' they find themselves in, the Boys sit on the edge of their beds and stare at their phones as if it's a lifeline, the only respite they have during this whole situation. Which, they both know, is much more than Dalton has. He tweets a lot about new shirts, some from ROH themselves, some from PWtees and similar websites like that. Time away from them had apparently left him searching for _some_ way to fill the void, which includes designing tshirts.

"I wish we could wear them," Brent murmurs, imagining himself in the latest blue shirt that ROH has released, a distant look in his eye. "Or at least touch them..." _Have some piece of Dalton with us_ , goes unsaid. Whatever of Dalton's had been in their bags had been found by Silas on day one, pitched unceremoniously into the night, where bugs, birds or animals of all kinds had had their way with the things in the time that's passed since.

Every day, they're forced out of the house to go wander the land, do whatever backbreaking, humiliating things Silas can think of for them to do that is supposed to turn them into _men_. Changing tires, upkeep of his car, sometimes even destroying hornet nests. How they escaped with only a handful of stings from that, Brandon isn't sure. Part of their 'chores' are also to walk down to the end of the very long, very steep driveway and get the mail from the rusted out box. Sometimes Bruiser accompanies them but most often then not he slumps against a fence and slurps from some beer cans, snarling at them to keep their mouths shut to Silas or else.

This leaves the Boys to go alone, down the hill, collect the mail. Both worry about tetanus, about snakes, about all kinds of things in the dense foliage that surrounds the mail box, but ... it all pays off one day when Brent all but screams, dropping a package right in the dirt and grime. Brandon gapes at him before grabbing at the piece of mail. "Are you _trying_ to get us killed?!" but his twin shakes his head, so wide eyed and incredulous that Brandon worries. Stares down at the package and too turns pale and shaky as he recognizes the handwriting.

It's Dalton's cursive squirming around the envelope, making Silas' address look even more lowrent and awful. It's instinctive, Brandon hides the grimy package under his shirt and trusts his twin to block him from view as they slip back inside, Brent handing over the mail and then spinning some story about needing to use the bathroom, needing to take Brandon with him because of twin bladders. Brandon nods, agreeing with his twin, and if Silas thinks it's weird, he either doesn't care, or has other things on his mind, so the Boys scamper off together and lock the bathroom door behind them, staring at each other in amazement.

Upon pulling the package out, they tear into it like hungry lions and then lean back, gaping at the soft blue fabric, the print of Dalton's name and FAN UP scattered around the shirt, along with images of their fans. "Oh," Brent chokes out, tears cleaning his grimy cheeks as he gingerly touches the plastic it's wrapped up in. "Dalton..."

Brandon breathes in and out slowly, his fingers tracing along the bag as he considers where Dalton must have touched while packing this, all of the emotions he must've been feeling as he stared down at the shirts that were intended for both of them. A silent promise that he's not given up on them, that soon they would be together again, and could wear these shirts in peace. "We need to hide these," he says painfully, getting to his feet and finding the loose floorboard they'd found that awful first night, when saving things had become a priority. If they had known sooner, if Silas had given them even a breath of a second, they could've spared more, but this holds their phones, their fans. A strip of blue fabric that had once been tied gently around Brent's wrist by Dalton himself.

The shirts are in plastic, he assumes they will be safe for now, hidden away in the dark and dank area. It's something at least, a physical representation of Dalton's faith in them, how hard he's trying to correct all that's wrong right now. When he turns around, Brent is staring into the hole, a pensive, hopeful look on his face. "He's coming for us, isn't he?"

"Of course he is," Brandon murmurs, pressing the floor board back into place. "He always will."

It's as simple as that.


End file.
